Bits and Pieces
by World Ink
Summary: 1,000 one-shots challenge. Accepting prompts. Current prompt: Vague Misery


**Bits and Pieces**

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Summary: 1,000 prompts that come together into one story that involves the world of magic.

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**Chapter One: Vague Misery **

Night hung over Hogwarts like a veil, only a dim beam of moonlight pooling in through the windows and drenching the room in a cascade of lights and shadows that spilled over Harry's face as he sat in his bed. Despite the hour, so late that even the moon seemed exhausted in the effort of staying in the sky, Harry's had long since given up the guise of slumber. Instead, he had taken to the habit of neglecting sleep altogether – his dreams were haunted by faces that he would never see again, filled to the brim with emotions and wounds that his weary heart couldn't process or heal. The final battle, the ultimate war, had been only three days ago – and in his mind it remained as fresh as the day it had happened. However, tender as the feeling of pain and loss was, Harry himself was surprised to find that raw anger and frustration were his strongest outlooks.

An ambiguous disappointment clung to him; it itched beneath his skin, locked into him as though fish hooks had buried themselves into every joint and muscle – particularly his heart and mind. He could _feel_ it physically, could feel it sit in his stomach, an unwelcome guest that had rooted itself within him – he was completely and utterly dissatisfied with Voldemort.

He didn't mean to be, but in all truth he had expected something more. He'd been expecting a monster. He had imagined dripping fangs to match his scarlet eyes, long nails as sharp as claws , and skin as pale and sickly as his heart. In his mind, Voldemort was a creature that had been molded by evil and refined by the darkest and most twisted of magic. Without a single or unwavering doubt, Voldemort had most definitely been a man of wickedness and sinful actions – his appearance had been frightening and dark, fitting for a snake sent from the pits of Hell; that was all true, and Harry would never deny the Dark Lord's demonic engagements. However, in the end, Voldemort had simply been a man. And that simply wasn't good enough.

A mere man had taken the lives of so many – one wizard had wrought horrors against humanity and the wizarding world unlike any before him, and most likely after. He, by the sheer power of his own hatred, had paved a way for devastation that no one could parallel. Beneath his dark cloak, his army of Horcuxes, his crimson iris's, he was just a man. It was driving Harry absolutely mad, simply because he didn't understand it.

So many people had been so callously murdered by him, and what was he? He could have been anybody, any one at all. He had no excuse, no reason.

Harry's eyes refocused as he stared at the window, his eyes tracing his scar in the reflection of the glass – the lie behind the greatest legend. The mark of the only boy to survive the Killing Curse; and it hadn't even been him to saved himself.

He and Voldemort had something in common – they weren't who they were thought to be.

Voldemort had been made out to be some dark and relentless god; his face, void of any shade of mercy or kindness, had been known throughout the wizarding world. His name was taboo, a waking curse that brought dead silence to most – even those who didn't consider themselves superstitious had been known to whisper You-Know-Who's name if they dared to say it all. The Dark Lord's power had been hailed as unbeatable, fathomless, and so far beyond defeat that resistance was wasted. However, in the end, he'd died a mortal's death – proof that he'd been nothing more a man. An evil man, a perverse man with dark intentions and distorted dreams – but a man.

Harry himself was supposed to be the answer, the solution. He was the Chosen One, the Boy Who Lived – and whatever other titles he'd happened to miss as he'd made his way through life. He had had the destiny somewhat shoveled off onto him because, by some miracle, he'd defeated the Dark Lord's magic. He even had his own prophecy and everything – but it wasn't him. Famous as he was, he really hadn't done anything for it. It was his mother, and the gift of her dying love, that had saved him. Nothing else.

Harry heard Ron start to stir, an abrupt hitch in his usually peaceful snoring as he rolled over in his bed. Harry felt a small smile cover his face as he turned back to the ginger, who was throwing off the sheets and standing to his feet – however, he was still a bit sluggish, sleep still thick in his system as he blinked at Harry from where he stood.

"Don't you ever sleep?" Ron mumbled as he drowsily rubbed at his eye to help wake himself up.

"Of course I do," Harry felt himself respond indignantly, but he knew the dark circles beneath his eyes would tell a different story. However, Ron couldn't judge too harshly – he also had bags under his eyes from lack of sleep; Ron had nightmares just as much as Harry himself did, haunted by the same sting of loss that had crept into Harry's own heart since the war had ended. Unlike Harry though, Ron had listened to Hermione's warnings about the side effects of losing sleep; not that Ron had felt compelled by the possibility of unhealthy skin and silly things like that, he just hadn't wanted to worry Hermione. He'd learned to face the nightmares anyway.

"I swear I'll have some sleep draught brewed up for you if you don't take care of yourself soon. Two days without sleep isn't healthy, Harry. Or did Hermione's speech slip right past you?"

Harry rolled his eyes as he stood up to face Ron with a sly grin, "Oh, I heard it. But unlike you, she doesn't fancy me enough to force me to bed."

Ron's ears flamed into blossom of reds, "She did not force me." He objected.

A genuine laugh clambered out of Harry's mouth, "She did everything but tuck you in!"

"Did not!" Ron protested, sounding much younger than he was.

"She sent an owl to make sure you were asleep. I had to write back to tell her you were."

Ron smirked and slowly shook his head before giving a shrug, "Fair enough. Still, staying up for so long can't be good for you, Harry…" Ron sighed, a look of understanding in his eyes, "The nightmares are a bloody Hell, Harry. But you need sleep, and is thinking about them constantly instead really any better?"

Harry pushed his glasses further up the bridge of his nose before giving an indignant huff, "It could be," he shrugged, but his voice was giving away to reason – and despite himself, he yawned.

"Ah, see there," Ron's sleepy grin widened considerably as Harry tried to stifle his yawn, "You're tired."

"But what about the dreams, Ron?" Harry felt himself snap, frustration from his earlier thoughts regaining hold of him, "I don't think I can deal with the quite yet."

A hardened and sad smile flickered across the gingers face, a kind of hardness entering his blue eyes and making him look so much older than he had a few moments ago, "I'm not going to tell you it's easy, if that's what you're after," Ron commented before shrugging, "But you'll have to sleep eventually, and I speak from personal experience when I say it's better to take them with your head on straight."

Harry saw a ghost of pain cross his friend's face, and he remembered that he'd heard Ron crying out for Fred only a night ago. Tears and sobs had made his face beet red, almost as bright as his hair and making his freckles disappear in a sea of flushed cheeks. Harry had had to wake him up, and even then Ron had been far too shaken to talk about his dreams.

Harry's first reaction was to try and comfort his companion, but he sensed that if he did he'd only be scratching at healing wounds, so he simply nodded at him before standing up, "…Fine," he muttered at last, cracking his back as he left his place by the window and made his way over to the bed.

Ron looked satisfied with himself as he followed Harry's lead and returned to his own bed, snuggling under disheveled covers and leaving one leg exposed.

Harry, warmly tucked beneath his own sheets, had always found it rather impressive how quickly his friend could get comfortable – and even more remarkable was how easily sleep would come to him if he wanted it too. Just as he saw Ron's eyelids slipping closed, Harry felt a question burning inside of him.

"Hey, Ron?" he asked.

Eyes still closed, Ron mumbled, "Yeah?

"Does it bother you that Voldemort was just a man?"

Ron's eyes slid open slowly as he studied his friend's face, "What are you on about, mate?"

"I mean, Voldemort…was a man in the end. That's it. Doesn't that trouble you at all?"

Seeing as how this would require effort, Ron propped himself up a bit on his elbows to think. His face set in a hard line, and then he shrugged, "Maybe a bit," he admitted, "But I think it's fitting."

"Fitting?" Harry asked curiously, taking his glasses off and setting them on the nightstand.

"For all his talk and power, I'm glad he died just like anyone else would." Ron explained.

"But that means anyone could be evil as him."

"I don't think so," Ron yawned, "You had a part of him _inside_ of you, and you weren't anything like him at all."

Harry felt his eyelids growing heavy, and he could see Ron's body starting to slump a bit as he fought to stay awake.

"Thanks, Ron." Harry said finally, and Ron gave a sleepy nod.

"Oi, go to bed Harry." Ron's muffled reply came, but Harry could hear the smile in his friend's voice as the ginger rolled over and succumbed to sleep.

And then Harry felt his own body start to relax, and before he was even aware of it exhaustion had claimed him and sank him down into the depths of sleep.

And he dreamed about people he'd never see again, but were always with him.

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_**Author's Note:** So, I'm taking this crazy challenge to write 1,000 prompts. That being said, I am accepting prompts from you guys, too. So, if you have an idea, please submit. Also, I hoped you liked this._


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